Fort Worth daily gazette. (Fort Worth, Tex.) 1882-1891, 1887-10-30


Grief, who tells US that SIT is humbling
20 think that the strongest affections
! which have perplexed, or agitated, or de-
| ignted us from our birth will, in e few
years, cease to have any existence on the
esrth; and that ali the ardour which they
have kindled will be as completely extiD-
guished and forgotten as if they had never
| been
/ The vicar was one of those simple
minded men who deem all they meet as
unsophisticated as themselves; but for
such as this Hussar he had no words.
"Musgrave may have changed" said
he, with bitter sigh. "The fancy OF 8
man SO young, amid the temptations OF
garrison life, is apt TO be soon ensrsred
aod instructed"
ga fancy, but not love-" ssid Mrs.
/ Brendon, who was true to her early TO-
mantle instincts, and like the doctor,
knew as much about garrison life as of
the unknown tongues. perhaps he has
been unable to face the opposition Of lis
father''
"Bua "a man shall leave his father and
mother and cleave unto his wife," said
the vicar, sententiuusly. "The man has
been amusing himself, that ls ALL"
II so, it was cruelty "double distille6;"
for With all Ter innate merriment and
brightness, !itt.e Amy Brendon was girl
Wao could not comprehend even the mere
rudime"ts of filtration, and Horace Mus
grave had carried her far hey ond them.
At last there came day which Amy
never forgot.
| No letters had come from Horace in
sns~er Go the many she wrote; or d to
ore almost despairiDg and upbraiding let
ter she had posted with prayer and
sigh, she now. with some new confidence,
awaited a reply. It seemed impossible
for sny man to omit Doing g., if a grain
Of humanity remained in his heart.
TIE click in the old church tower
near the Garage tolled the hour Of "A
| q m.
1t vas an eutumnal morning, and she
could hear the signing of the wind as it
swept through the fhinned foliage of the
ancient trees that grew thereby; and the
very sound made the girl sad and
thoughtful, recslliDg scriptural passages
OF her fathers sermons, telling that the
time will come when we too "shall fade as
a leaf the wind has taken sway. Ali thSt
thou hast shall fall down IS the leaf
fslleth from the vine," and that we shall
soon be Gas the oaks when they cast their
lesveSn
Most of the night she had been tossing
restlessly on her pillow, and her thick
dark hair, rough and unruY rather than
smooth or silky, was all dishevelled and
tumbled about her shoulders.
Sne must have dropped asleep after 8
time, Tor the church clock awoke her
from teverish dream to the knowledge |
that her brief term OF hslf-con, ciousness
had boIf
hour.
How weary in heart and worn in spirit |
she felt. How sad, end dark, and long
the time seemed.
Four hours must get elapse ere the
post arrived in that rather seouestered |
nook a. Oxfordshire. Horace must reply !
to that last appeal, and let her know the
worst-the very worst, whatever it was |
-Four hours-would they ever psss?
What could his insttention mean? Did |
it arise from sick esq, an accident, jeal-
ousy of some imaginary person, of faith
lessness on his own part-oh, not that
death itself were better.
Yee, pain, illDess-even the lsst-men-
TONED catsstrophe-wereb better to con-
template, she thought, than the terrible
doubt; the tangible dread, of-she knew
not Whet-but q dread that seemed TO dry
10 the spring OF her existence
Day was stealing on at last, greyl7,
with all its shadows reversed; and half
dressed she peeped out into the morning :
mist.
An answer must come to-day. She had /:
the time to moment. '
Six, seven, eight O'Clock struck.
Another hour and the pOs'm sn would
come, slowly deliberately, gossip l
ne with each friend he met, as all rural
,ostmen do-perhsps coming the con-
ents of the post cards, if any there were. (
At last he came in sight, and actually a s
title before his usual time, too. Then {
he whole vicarsge seemed to resound to ,
he wild peal of the bell door; certainly {
Amy's overcharged heart reverberated
hereto.
She had felt too Ill, too weary, to dress
and face the day; but now she 6
prang from her bed, pushed back the
nick ripping hair from her 6
hrobbing temples, and listened with t
trained attention to the glow, provok-
ngly slow, steps of the approaching b
lousemaid, with her letters upon sal t
er. t
There were four. Amy darted at them, V
danced at them, and saw in moment t
hat there was not one OF the four from C
Jorsce. Not one yet! q
"Oh, merciful heaven, what can have 8
she walled out the instsnt @
he was alone and her knees bent under
er.
In her brief but hitherto happy life il
ONE fearful crisis seemed close at hand u
ow d
Was it some unsccountable jealousy,
ONE SANDER concerning Reginal Talbot O
oh no, that was too absurd, too impos- VI
lille now. Anyway, her father must go 8;
D Dublin and upravel this horrible mys- .
erV, or she would die.
Was it indeed fslsehood, after all? W
Amy looked into her glass and thought, b.
Can it be that The poor little face which RI
e so often vowed was without peer-fnr
I'm at least-1as no charms for him now? r.
hat all my little ways and wild speeches, q,
hich he was wont to doat On as the joy u,
his life-an idyllic life-sre deemed n
spid and are forgotten now?" r.
CHAPTER xxx.-uGHT!
Her father, the vicar, had heard but re- W
entity of the dreadful catastrophe that
Id happened to his old friend and Oxford III
,um, the Rector of Chillington, through ca
lie marriage of his only daughter Claire
!, Digby Montressor; how the broken n
,arted old man had been found dead In es
s bed, and G aire had disappeared, none ri
lew how or where; and hence the anti tn
patton of some dire calamity grew CT
rOro in tine vicerse mind inst then sr